Sinful Cycles
by Bathea
Summary: The legendary bond between Lothiriel and Eomer of Rohan inspired many a Rohirric bard. Yet no other than Erwin of Dalgaard was able to capture their passionate essence in the so called Sinful Cycles…
1. First Cycle: Lust

**Greetings folks, I'm here with a new story which has been ghosting around in my head for a very long time. Now that I have a lot of time on my hands due to a leg injury, I figured to give it a try. Reviews would be highly appreciated.**

 **First Cycle: Lust**

 _The king is absent from his throne,_

 _they're searching high and low._

 _He takes his lovely bride all night,_

 _until first morning's crow._

 _Praise be to all who are in love,_

 _for it's the rarest price._

 _It giveth hope to all wand'ring souls,_

 _t'be joined in paradise…_

They had made camp in a small village close to the White Mountains near the Westfold. A cold west wind carried the last remains of winter over the white gleaming hills. Eomer, King of Rohan, blew into his cold hands in order to bring heat to his stiff digits. Through the bustling crowd of riders dismounting and servants retrieving items from saddlebags and caravans, he focused on a green cloaked figure standing next to several women of the farm-stead. His wife, formerly known as Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, knew how to make friends instantly. She was an enigma to him: He had never known someone whom he so undeniably loved and cherished yet also lusted after. Being so close to her without being able to address those feelings freely and intimately, had consequently taken its toll on him. He had to put an end to this charade. A senight without her touch had been torture enough.

After a long but successful tour through both the East and West Emmnet, the royal party had stayed at the Hornburg for the Yule festivities. Secretly, Eomer thanked the gods that they were on the road again. In the beginning of his kingship, he had been overwhelmed by the sheer amount of social engagements and the flock of people that were involved in the daily routine of the royal household. Although he had come to know the court of Edoras from an early age, he could not recall that his uncle had been held captive in such a way by household matters. True, Wormtongue had taken care of that, he grimly thought to himself.

He was pulled out of his dark pondering when a middle-aged woman approached their entourage. They had arrived late at the farm-stead. The March-sun glowed in fiery colors as the king dismounted his steed to greet the farmers. Lothiriel took his arm as they walked up to the main hall.

A middle-aged woman stepped forward and smiled warmly. "Welcome to Rodberg, Eomer king, Lothiriel queen. She curtsied deeply in front of the royal couple. Mylord, a feast has been prepared in your honor. We hope you enjoy your stay." To Lothiriel's surprise, the woman turned directly to her: "Mylady, would you care for a light repast in the _bæþ-hús_? Mistress Æbba has been guarding the fires all day in anticipation of your arrival."

"Why of course!" Lothiriel practically beamed at the famer's wife, who had come the way down a steep hill to greet the royal party. Several local women and children had joined the entourage, bringing food and dry clothes.

"Rodberg is famous for its hot spring and _bæþ-húsene_ , _hlǣfdīge_." Alma, newest addition to the Queen's inner circle replied giddily, while other women hummed in confirmation. "That sounds

simply divine. Eomer, are you coming?" She searched her husband's gaze. His dark eyes were practically devouring her.

"Oh no, _hlǣfdīge.", Alma interjected, "_ Men aren't allowed at the ǽwe-segnung." Lothiriel looked quizzically at her, while pulling her fur trimmed cloak tightly around herself.

"Is this some sort of ritual?"

"That is quite right, _min cwen_." An old woman had appeared amongst the group of men and women. Some riders backed away in order for her to greet the young queen. Her lined face lit up when she focused on Lothiriel, her piercing blue eyes almost dancing comically.

When she reached Lothiriel, she took her gloved hands and squeezed them warmly. Lothiriel was impressed by the strength of her grasp. "My queen, I bid thee welcome to Rodberg. I am mistress Æbba. It is an honor that you grace our humble farm-stead with your presence and that of your Lord husband's. She bowed her head respectfully towards Eomer who had come to stand beside his queen.

"We are thankful for your warm welcome, Mistress Æbba.", Eomer replied graciously. His hand came to rest on Lothiriel's side which caused her insides to clench in excitement.

She too had felt the sting of his absence during those nights on the road. She wasn't exactly oblivious to the cause of their disconnect. They were surrounded by people at all times. That and the fact that Eomer's new queen was high in demand. As an accomplished healer of the houses of healing, Lothiriel took an interest in Rohirric remedies and herbs. So after a short period of polite distance, everybody had flocked to her like a moth to the flame. The people of the Mark rejoiced in the fact of having an eloquent and well-educated queen. Although his heart was soaring with pride considering these recent developments, he couldn't deny that he was anxious to be with his bride again.

"Sire, isn't it great to be courting again?", Swifthelm, marshall of the Eastmark had roared with laughter one night in the company of Eomer and his riders. They had sat around the campfire while his liege was staring into his empty stein. Although everybody had been mightily amused, it earned the poor marshal a trip to the Brownland in spring to oversee the wool trade which had not gone unnoticed by Lothiriel. But this didn't stop riders and noble folk alike to bet on the swift arrival of an heir.

"My queen, the _ǽwe-segnung_ is as powerful a tradition as it is ancient. We woman of the Mark cherish the blessing of Wána, goddess of nature and fertility. Without her, our earth becomes barren and dry. We pray to her to guide us and bless us with the gift of life."

Lothiriel watched with growing interest as the old woman pulled something out of her skirt pocket. She opened her hand, so the queen was able to look at it. It was a golden pendant on a leather string. Its infinite loops formed a simbelmynë at the center.

"May this token of Wána protect you, _hlǣfdīge."_ She dropped the necklace into the palm of her hand. Lothiriel gave thanks to her, yet apparently, mistress Æbba wasn't done. She shuffled forward and grasped either side of her face. Her warm lips pressed against her forehead. The new queen was deeply touched by the old woman's affectionate gesture and smiled broadly.

"Come, _hlǣfdīge._ The ceremony is about to begin. Follow me to the bathhouse." She turned to the steep hill which was now lit with several torches, their flames dancing to the mysterious rhythm of the wind.

Lothiriel was about to follow mistress Æbba and her entourage, as a strong hand pulled her back. Eomer's dark orbs reflected the light of the flames. His features softened when he looked at her.

"You're doing so good. I am proud of you."

Lothiriel smiled up at him and caressed his bearded cheek. "It is an honor to be their queen, the least I can do is to practice our traditions."

"I like the sound of that." He stroked her bottom lip with his thumb. "Miss me?"

Her eyes danced with mirth and love. "Always. Now, don't let your men wait."

Eomer shrugged his shoulders and bend down to kiss her longingly. "I can't wait to be home again."

Lothiriel pressed her hands against his chest. "Neither can I. But for now, I kindly ask you to release me."

He smiled and kissed her cheek one last time which made her laugh.

"Get on with it sire, or we might get blue balls as well." Swifthelm yelled behind them. Roaring laughter accompanied the women on their way to the bath area, as Eomer followed his men into the main hall. A couple of riders shot each other meaningful glances, as their stoney-faced sovereign took a big swig out of a wooden mug, which he was offered the minute he stepped foot into the hall. No one dared to make another jest and let him sulk in peace. Even Swifthelm was wise enough not to revisit the subject.

Although it was an undeniable fact that Mistress Æbba was a woman of an advanced age, she displayed breathtaking agility while climbing the stairs to the bathhouse. When they reached the top of the hill, Lothiriel gasped at the sight of beautifully crafted wooden huts that were lined up against the backdrop of a massive waterfall. The steams coming from the large pond were blowing upwards into the midnight sky.

"Oh, it's simply beautiful, mistress Æbba!" Lothiriel was so engrossed in looking at the waterfall, she didn't notice the old woman had come to stand beside her.

"It really is, mylady. I am thankful for each day that Bema grants me to serve Wana's wishes. Now come, _hlǣfdīge. It is time."_

She took Lothiriel by the hand and led her to one of the larger wooden huts. Its entrance was marked by two beams crossing over each other and decorated with the symbols of Wana. Lothiriel recognized a beautifully carved wrath of simbelmynës at its center. Suddenly, she realized that no one else was following her. Her entourage was standing next to the waterfall, bowing their heads in respect. Mistress Æbba noticed the look of confusion on her face and smiled broadly:

"Do not fret, _hlǣfdīge min, this is a very intimate ceremony._ Only the _beorþorþínen_ is present when the _ǽwe_ , a married woman, seeks out the blessing of Wána."

They stepped into the hut which despite its narrow exterior locked surprisingly big. A waft of hot steam greeted the two women. Its scent reminded Lothiriel of the aromatic herb gardens in Minas Tirith. Different dried plants were hanging in bundles from two large beams. Only cedar wood was used for the walls and floors which added to the pleasant aroma of smoke and herbs. Light-colored wooden benches were standing on either side of a stone rimmed hearth.

"Please take of your clothes. You can lie down on the bench over there, _hlǣfdīge." L_ othiriel nodded and moved around the hearth to the wooden bench at the center of the hut. While she peeled out of her layers of winter clothing, she observed mistress Æbba's efficient movements. The old woman put several logs of wood into the fire and stroked it with a metal poker. Despite the considerable heat that was building up inside the hut, mistress Æbba was still wearing her heavy cloak. When the fire was dancing merrily in the hearth, Lothiriel sat down on the wooden bench. Her clothes and fur trimmed winter boots were neatly stowed away in a wooden basket under the bench. She lifted her heavy braid from the nape of her neck to cool her heated skin. It was obvious to the Rohirric woman that she felt slightly uncomfortable being naked in front of strangers.

"Do not fret, _min cwen_. No one is going to disturb us. Please lie down, I'll bring you a cloth." She smiled appeasingly and Lothiriel slowly exhaled. Mistress Æbba reached into a basked standing next to her small stool and pulled out a pristine linen cloth. It was big enough to cover Lothiriel's torso. The old woman drenched it in a bucket of cool water and shuffled around the hearth to reach the young woman.

"Please." She offered the cloth to Lothiriel who graciously took it. The soaking towel dripped over her naked body which immediately brought relief to her heated skin.

Mistress Æbba went back to her basket to retrieve several bags. Lothiriel propped herself up on her elbows to observe the old woman.

"Please lie down and close your eyes, mylady. You mustn't distract yourself." Lothiriel blushed and smiled apologetically. She pulled the cloth over her breasts and closed her eyes. On the other side of the hearth, mistress Æbba poured finely minced herbs from the little bag in her hand and started to sing:

 _"I call upon the gods to protect the mother of our realm._

 _May from her loins spring forth a new descendant of Eorl._

 _Let Wána guide and shield her on the path to motherhood._

 _Bless this union and any offspring that may come from it, for a new season has begun._

 _What Béma has joined together, let no man nor woman put asunder."_

She threw the minced herb into the fire. Each time the dry mixture hit the flames, its flakes gleamed brightly.

 _"Dill against all evil."_

 _"Sage for purity."_

 _"Horehound for health."_

 _"Lavender for devotion."_

 _"Mayoram for joy and happiness."_

 _"Geranium for fertility."_

Lothiriel listened to the sounds of burning matter, as mistress Æbba raised her hand one last time:

 _"And foxglove for protection. Hear our prayers Wána. May these herbs bless our queen with their gifts."_

Said queen listened to the shuffling of footsteps as mistress Æbba approached the bench. The old woman opened a jar of ointment which was spread generously over Lothiriel's forehead.

 _"Mind."_

Lothiriel felt mistress Æbba's hands move down to her abdomen _"Body."_ The pleasant smelling ointment was applied just below her navel. " _And soul._ " She felt Æbba's ointment-drenched fingers circling in above her heart while spreading the mixture. Lothiriel exhaled slowly and relaxed onto the wooden bench. She had been anxious to understand each mysterious word that the old woman had spoken. But after a short while, her voiced had lulled her into a peaceful state of mind.

"Please lie still and relax for another while, hlǣfdīge min. The herbs have to take full effect." The queen nodded and let her head sink down on the cedar wood.

"I'll retrieve more cloths and something to eat for mylady, please relax." And with that, Lothiriel heard footsteps shuffling away into the night.

He had seen them coming in through the broad double doors of the hall. Lothiriel's ladies in waiting joined the riders and the villagers of Rodbrock for the grand feast. But no sight of his wife. As the noise in the hall grew louder and the fourth oaken barrel of the evening was about to be tapped, Eomer noticed a small person slipping through a side door of the hall. Mistress Æbba was carrying a large pile of linen and a basket which was swinging from her arm. Nobody took notice of his leave when he headed to the old woman.

"I trust that everything went swimmingly?"

She focused on the barrel at the center of one of the long table. "Oh yes, she is a gem, your wife."

"Oh, don't I know it." He mumbled in annoyance as they watched a couple of riders sing the old songs of Eorl while lifting their tankards.

"You seem tense, mylord."

The king didn't know whether to laugh or scold at her ingenious comment. "It's been a long day, mistress."

The old woman smiled devilishly and pressed the linens to her breast. "May I help you carry those, mistress Æbba?"

Her piercing blue eyes saw right through him. "Even better hláford min, why don't you take the basket and linens to your lady. I'd wager she'll be ravenous by now."

"But mistress…" She pushed the linens into his arms. "I shan't offer it again, my king. Disgraceful to be dropping hints at my old age! Get you gone and be quick about it."

He shot her a blinding smile and disappeared through the door as if by magic.

Lothiriel stretched her limbs on the wooden bench inside the small hut. Her cold, stiff muscles seemed to melt under the blazing heat. A fine film of sweat had formed on her skin, her linen cloth was lying beside her as it no longer held use for her. She hadn't felt this relaxed in a long while. As she shifted into a more comfortable position, the wooden hut door creaked open.

There she was. Under the dim light of the glowing fire barely noticeable. Her raven tresses all spread out on the pale cedar wood. Her bronze skin glistening with driblets of sweat. He wanted to lick her, feel her, delve into her beckoning folds. He put down the linens and the basket as he ducked his head to step inside the hut. His wife who didn't scare easily, cracked open an eye to look at the intruder.

"Eomer, what.."

"Shh, leof. They are looking for me. Will you grant me refuge?"

Lothiriel propped herself up on her elbows and smiled openly at him. "How did you manage to sway Mistress Æbba?"

Eomer grinned devilishly while shrugging of his light tunic. He could not help but stare at her beckoning physique.

"She took pity on a neglected husband." Lothiriel tut tutted him: "You whiney little prick, how did you ever survive long tours?

Eomer sniggered, and kneeled beside the bench. Lothiriel had propped her head on her elbow and grinned broadly. He stroked her cheek with one finger and brushed a sweaty strand behind her elven-like ear.

"Well, there were times if it weren't for poor Eothain, I'd have dry humped Elfhelm, I'll tell you that much." They burst out laughing while Lothiriel stood up and stroked his naked chest.

„Béma be thanked that I'm here to take his place."

Eomer bent down and lifted her chin with two fingers: "Praise Béma for small miracles." She opened his breeches and pushed them down. "And for big ones." They engaged in a passionate kiss as Eomer lifted his bride into his arms. Lothiriel wound her legs around his waist while he carried her to the wooden bench. He swiftly rid himself of his hindering legwear and laid his wife one the warm bench.

"Is this the final part of the ceremony? Will Wána bless us with a child?"

Eomer's dark orbes gleamed with love and adoration and better yet, with mischief.

"There is only one way to find out, min meregrot."

His kiss was soft at first, as if physically transmitting the question to her body. She held onto his broad shoulders as he began to pump into her. A cool breeze hit her sweat covered torso each time Eomer lifted his hips for a new, forceful thrust. Lothiriel was breathless. She couldn't grasp a single coherent thought as his thick, calloused fingers traveled down her hipbone, stroking her inner thigh, caressing her crevice. It was just the right amount of force she needed to send her to heaven's threshold. She kissed and licked his neck, while he whispered words of lust and love.

"Yes,". The breathy exclamation escaped her throat ere she was able to control it. Eomer pulled her upwards onto his lap. She embraced his head while riding his cock forcefully. His hands tightened at her waist, guiding her newly established rhythm. "Ne stæpp.": he kissed his wish into her skin, licking the small beads of sweat from her graceful neck. "Come for me, min se swetesta blóstm" he rasped on her collarbone, kissing his way down to her heaving breasts. Her insights clenched in delight as he took one of her nipples into his mouth.

Her hands gripped his thick, sweaty hair. The continuous ministrations were playing havoc with her senses. The ever-growing heat from the hearth amplified their pleasures. He had to pull her close in order for her not to slip from his lap. She was so close and then almost with no warning, she pulled his face from her breast to kiss him frantically:

"Love,… I can't… I'm, I.."

"Ic come!": Mistress Æbba snapped at a couple of riders who demanded a new barrel. Swifthelm sat at the center of the longe table, taking on bets on the swift arrival of a royal Eorling.

"Mistress Æbba, come join us!" He gestured towards the old woman. But before she was able to get to him, she noticed Alma in the corner of her eye, who was trying to leave the hall.

She caught her by the arm at one of the wooden pillars. "If you even think about disturbing your lady, think again! I know of places where no one would even look for you. Get back to your gaggling geese!"

Alma first turned a deep shape of crimson before all colour left her face. She then hurried down the benches to her ladies.

Satisfied, mistress Æbba turned to inspect the marshal's growing wealth that had piled up on the table.

"I'll say we have a new prince by next summer!", a rider from the East Mark proudly declared.

"Beallucas, Eolfrid! Can you even count? It won't take that long. I'll bet five silver coins on autmn."

Swifthelm grinned appreciatively and stroked his bearded chin. "What say you, mistress Æbba?"

"Well, you marshals may gamble all you like, but I might as well collect my prize. The Mark will thank me in nine months time." She offered a toothless grin to the marshal, as she flipped a silver coin into the palm of his hand.

 **Glossary:**

 **beallucas** \- Old Saxon for "bollocks" (one of my favorites)

 **Ic come** \- I'm coming!

 **Ne stæpp -** don't stop

 **min se swetesta blóstm -** my sweet blossom (found it befitting, considering the meaning of Lothiriel's name)

 **Wána** (or Vana) - wife of Béma, godess of flora and fauna

 ** _hlǣfdīge_** \- lady

 **hláford -** lord

 **min cwen** \- my queen

 **leof** \- love, my love (sometimes leofe, but I found leof as well)

 **min meregrot** \- my pearl

 **ǽwe-segnung** \- it's a term that I thought of as some sort of fertility or blessing ritual for the hopeful mother-to-be: **ǽwe** means "married woman" and **segnung** "blessing"

 **beorþorþínen** \- midwife (I thought mistress Æbba's role would be so much more than that, that's why I only used the Anglos Saxon word once. I see her as a shaman-healer-midwife type of woman all mixed into one)

 **bæþ-húsene** / **bæþ-hús -** bath houses, bath house ( I did a lot of research regarding medieval saunas or steam baths. Since this invention is not really rooted in the Anglo-Saxon culture, I looked into Finnish traditions. But this would be the closest translation to my idea at this point. Naturally, all helpful input would be highly appreciated)


	2. Second Cycle: Gluttony

**Gluttony (Second Song)**

 _Adventures of Kunglig_ _M_ es

 _Drink up, Lords!_

 _Drink up, Ladies!_

 _When all yearn for ale,_

 _there's just one who'd bail._

 _The frilly, the frolic mes_

 _known fare and wide for his prowess._

* * *

"You know, I finally came to realise how much your brother must hate my guts."

Lothiriel who had leaned comfortably against her husband's broad chest turned her head in surprise.

"Would you care to elaborate your assessment, dear husband?" Her sea-green eyes bore directly into his soul. In all fairness, he had never been able to deny her anything - even from the first day they met.

He bent down to kiss the tip of her nose. "You know, the gift Amrothos so generously bestowed upon us this Yule. I believe he took most of it for himself - What's that drink called again?"

Lothiriel grinned broadly and relaxed back into the warm tub while enjoying the tender caresses of Eomer's fingers against her thighs.

"It's called Champagne. It's quite popular among..."

"Prissy lords and ladies who can't hold their liquor -" Eomer nipped at her neck for emphasis which evoked a soft moan from her throat that swiftly turned into laughter. Her deep, throaty chuckles aroused him as he felt them rippling and expanding in her chest.

"Unfortunately, drinking contests are not one of our strong suits. As you are aware, Amrothos is regularly being reminded of his shortcomings when he visits."

He didn't answer right away, as he explored the soft junction between her legs while trailing hot kisses up to her ear shell.

"Oh, I believe people can change their ways. They just have to try hard enough."

Before his fingers could slip through her sweet folds, a warm hand swiftly grasped them.

A flash of white teeth distracted him for a mere moment before warm lips met his own.

Lothiriel had shifted so she knelt between his legs. Her hands came to grasp either side of his face.

"Don't make promises you can't keep yourself, my love." His eyes were fixed on her mysterious smile as she rose from the warm water. Her beckoning physique enticed him long enough to notice that she had climbed out of the bathtub.

"And where do you think you are going? We are definitely not done here."

She stepped over the soft woolen rugs, purposefully leaving her bathrobe behind. Droplets of water on her back glistened in the candlelight like fiery diamonds. Eomer swallowed as the pressure in his groin started to rise considerably.

She eyed him coquettishly. "Oh don't I know it. Wait for me?"

And with that, she disappeared into their dark chambers, her return as uncertain as her words.

Eomer sighed audibly, his hand combing through his hair in annoyance. Why, oh why did he have to bring up Amrothos? He silently cursed under his breath as he imagined his brother-in-law probably rejoicing in the fact that he could stop him from having very satisfactory marital relations, the self-righteous little prick.

The pressure in his groin lessened somewhat as he shifted his large frame so that he lay in the water while bedding his head on his crossed arms which rested on the side of the tub.

This Yule had been nothing but spectacular, as had been Amrothos's generous gifts which had surprised the whole family. Usually, he kept "the good stuff" as he had so proudly proclaimed to his annoyed household. But this year, he boasted of his generosity to all who cared to listen. These generous gifts had consisted of four boxes of frilly stuff or "Champagne" - a product of a good harvest as he had assured him. Quite frankly, Eomer was not really keen on finding out what a bad harvest was - this bubbly stuff was just the epitome of noble Gondorean pretentiousness.

Eomer let out an involuntary chuckle as he pondered how very little his boasting had helped Amrothos prevail in the Yule drinking contest. Despite his efforts, Amrothos had not been able to shake his pet name _kunglig mes._

Before he could curse Amrothos into oblivion, a slight clinking sound captured his attention. There, in the golden light of the candles gleamed a dark green bottle of frilly-

"Champagne, my love ?"

Her eyes shone with mirth as her slim fingers grasped the bottleneck.

He furrowed his brows. "Well, it doesn't really do much for me, love. It's just really my cup of -"

Her smile -if at all possible- grew larger. She climbed over the edge of the tub and leaned against it. One of her slim legs wound itself around his torso, almost pinning him to her. He was so close that he could smell her sweetness.

"Have you tried it from a different vessel?" He looked at her in shock, his mind went blank at her suggestion. Lothiriel, in turn, pulled out the cork from the bottle and spread her legs for him.

His throat went dry as he felt the fire in his loins burning him from the inside out. Tenderly, he rose to his knees. Only then was he able to catch the first, sweet drop that threatened to slide from her precious pearl. Never in his life had he tasted something so exquisite. As streams of bubbling spirit followed the glistening, wet path down her navel, he swore he would track down every available flask of bubbly swill. Anything, just to hear her scream like that.

* * *

kunglig mes - (Swedish) royal wimp


	3. Third Cycle: Greed

**Third Cycle Greed**

 _Cheek to Cheek,_

 _heart to heart,_

 _light as light,_

 _gone my plight._

 _Breathing your air,_

 _nothing as fair._

 _And I long;_

 _And I hunger;_

 _For You._

They come sudden, making her insides clench with anticipation and desire, filling her head with the most delicious of fantasies. And then, when she is nearing her mental peak of what is bearable, the colourful images disappear, taking their delicious ecstasy with them, forever lost in the deep dark waters of her subconscious. What remains is that ever piercing throbbing that demanded to be dealt with. It is downright cruel, torture even - but oh so delectable when they pounce.

Colourful images of him, all that is him - tormenting her with light touches, always waiting for her insistent moans to descend upon her. Baffling as it was, she has come to love this powerful, passionate man who is now her husband. Truthfully, she could have never expected such natural passion from him, it is like he doesn't even try and here she is, clinging to him like a moth to the flame.

Ever since she discovered her own pleasure at a young age, she has found creative ways to relieve herself. Of course, being in such a restrictive position of the highest born princess of the realm, she had been discouraged to even ponder about such things. As an army of maids, ladies-in-waiting, and finally, her aunt had repeatedly tried their hardest to keep Lothiriel from discovering the act of physical intimacy, she, in turn, had taken it as a challenge to enlighten herself. Yes, and she had never backed down - hadn't it been almost additive to her pleasure when people had talked about it like some forbidden fruit. And so, as one year weaned into the next, she had - whatever freedom had been left to her fed her ever-growing need.

But with Eomer, nothing has been the same. Of course, some aspects of physical love have- due to lack of opportunity -been left to her own imagination. Her peaks - so familiar have been very different when brought on by their twining expertise. Oh - what bounty, what pleasure...

Yes, she knows lust. It has been her companion, fed by her fantasies, brought on her pleasure but now- now her most colorful imaginations can't keep up with what she is experiencing. Lust has eventually graduated to greed...

And now here she is, haunted by images of their most recent lovemaking.

 _His expert mouth caressed the insides of her thighs, slowly but surely reaching his final destination, his strong arms lifting her legs over his shoulders. Oh, how she had concentrated on that most delicious of feeling building up inside her. Everything felt heightened, soaring, blinding. As if every sensation came to haunt her, cursing her to experience everything in the most heightened bliss- the soft hairs of the furs, the crisp threads of the linens - the heated, bulky expanse of his back. She felt his muscles tense under the back of her legs._

 _"Mmh, yes", she sobbed helplessly, as he circled in on his pearl, his expert tongue - hot, soft, stroking her heated cavern. His soft rumbles of laughter translated into the most sensual massage, letting her hands find his hair, bracing_ _herself for what was to come. Utterly at his mercy by his brazen, expert hands and mouth, slowly but surely she neared the higher levels of extasy. With each breath, she felt the passion expand to unknown proportions until..."_

"Love?" Brown eyes come to inspect her worriedly. A warm hand rests on her arm. Startled as she is, she has not realised her husband's worried glance in her direction. Seated at a long table, the queen has grown more and more withdrawn to her husband's surprise and worry.

Lothiriel tries to smile while calming her raging emotions. "I am quite well, my lord, nothing to worry yourself over.": she whispers in his ear, carefully shifting in her seat to lessen the throbbing sensation between her thighs.

His features visibly relax; his eyes focus again on the Marshal of the Westmark who, decked out in all his finery, has been delivering a lengthy speech. Although trying her hardest to follow the esteemed marshal, sensual images appear before her eyes, so much so that she fears a dazed expression to appear on her face.

When she catches Eomer stroking his chin with his forefinger, her mind immediately races back to what that expert digit had done to her behind closed doors. Oh, how vexing the situation is! Relief so far out of reach, and that for a good long while - unless...

From where the royal couple is seated, she is not able to reach Eomer as easily as he is her, their high-backed chairs with their elaborately-arched armchairs render her attempt fruitless. She schools her features into a mask of polite interest, fixing her eyes on the marshal - but before she can put her plan into action, her husband - and consequently everyone else- raises to applaud the marshal. Frustratingly admitting defeat - for now, she rises from her seat to watch the Lord of the Mark declaring the festivities to commence.

As the feast carries well into the evening, she grows impatient. Her throbbing is still insistent, driving her to more desperate measures. To her luck, Eomer has left his seat next to her to sit next to a member of his council, listening intently. Flanked by her ladies-in-waiting, she occasionally contributes to their conversations, everything to keep up the charade.

Luckily he is seated on the opposite side of the table, totally oblivious and more importantly open to her attack. Slowly but surely, she frees her right foot from the satin prison of her slipper. Taking a sip of wine from her gleaming goblet for courage, she commences her endeavor.

When she extends her leg to his side, she feels a cool waft of air caressing her skin. Before she thinks to withdraw, she has reached her target. Feeling the smooth texture of his deer-skin breeches, her foot is already lazily trailing past his knee.

At first, she tries to avert his heated glares, as her foot grazes his inner thigh, dead set on its final destination. She rests her cheek upon her hand while trying to listen to a conversation between two of her ladies-in-waiting which by now only sounds like gibberish to her. Drunk with excitement, and egged on by heated stairs, her foot reaches its goal, feeling his large, warm bulge already quite hard under the smooth fabric. Before she can explore it any further, she is greeted by a large, hot hand. Shocked, she tries to withdraw, falsely taking his probing digits as a vigorous sign to cease her wanton antics immediately.

Upon pulling her leg back while thinking of how shamefully wanton she has become, regardless of how liberal she feels about her own pleasures, Eomer's thick fingers grasp her foot to draw her even closer to his now raging erection. She eyes him warily, seeing his sly grin from the corner of her eyes, his hand steadily massaging her foot along with his arousal. She feels trapped, wanting to act on their pleasure. She tries to tell him so by pointedly pressing toe into his groin, evoking nothing more than an eye-bat.

That man; she thinks annoyingly to herself when the source of her warmth leaves her. She tries not to look over but from what she can tell, he has risen from his seat. Trying desperately not to face him, she listens to the continuous chatterings that fade away into the heated hall. Many people have left the banquet table to dance to lively tunes from fiddle players; it is one of her favorites. As she grasps her cup anew, a familiar, warm hand descends upon her shoulder.

"Dear ladies, would you be so kind as to excuse your queen? I deem it a crime not to ask my wife for a dance when her favorite tune is playing." His suave request earns him appreciative sighs and Lothiriel knowing stares. Blushingly, she stares at the tall, handsome apparition that is her husband, conveniently dipped in golden candlelight. Almost unreal, she thinks to herself when he pulls her away to the dance floor. She knows, he doesn't have that kind of dancing in mind. When he turns to her, she almosts crashes into him, yet his competent grip prevents a worse outcome.

He pulls her against his broad chest, finding her ear almost immediately: "Are you trying to kill me, woman?" His dark eyes glint humorously, almost surprised -possibly by her detachment, most definitely by her forwardness. At this point, her cold lust from earlier is flaring up again, turning to hot greed.

Grinning widely, she tiptoes to reach his ear: "My feet were cold." Before she ends her last syllable he guffaws and sweeps her into the most passionate kiss yet, making her cling to him for dear life. As the music reaches a crescendo, he sweeps her away from the dancefloor and throws her over his shoulder. Secretly, she's happy that the hall is so poorly lit. "Let's warm you up properly then," he states, while she giggles uncontrollably. And with that, they both disappear into the night.

 **Hello, it's been a while! I'm officially back and happy to continue with new stories. Greetings to old and new readers, thanks for your patience and/ or interest. Sometimes the muse visits at odd hours, that's all I can really say. Have a great week! Love reading your reviews.**


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